


Playing games

by fakevermeer



Category: Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-21
Updated: 2014-07-21
Packaged: 2018-02-09 20:03:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1996011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fakevermeer/pseuds/fakevermeer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter realises something significant, tries to be smooth about it, fails horrendously. All a bit run-of-the-mill, really.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Playing games

**Author's Note:**

> Written for linpatootie as a short drabble on the prompt: "How about we go back to my place? I've got board games." 
> 
> Originally posted on Tumblr.

We had been practicing a new spell all afternoon. Well, I had been practicing. Nightingale had mostly been smirking at my attempts to create a single blue flame. For some reason the blue bastards were a lot harder to produce than the regular white and yellow kind. I was surprised Nightingale hadn’t sighed dejectedly yet, as I tried for the fifteen thousandth time to conjure up something that looked even remotely blue. He could’ve at least scolded me for not trying hard enough - because I hadn’t been, not really. I had a hard time trying to focus with him standing so ridiculously close. Honestly, I was getting more and more convinced they’d stamped out any sense of personal space at magical boarding school.

"Enjoying yourself?" I muttered, as I noticed Nightingale’s smirk grow wider at another, particularly horrible, failed attempt.

"Immensely." That velvet voice right beside my ear didn’t help with the concentration issues. At all.

"Could you get any smugger?"

"Do you want me to try?"

The way he said it made me look up. I was pretty sure - _pretty fucking sure_ \- that DCI Thomas Nightingale, head of the Folly and one of the last officially sanctioned English Wizards, was flirting with me. In fact, now that I thought about it, I wanted to smack myself in the face for not noticing it earlier.

I tried to figure out how I felt about this, but surprisingly enough I found I didn’t really have much figuring out to do. The simple truth was: I liked it. Actually, I liked it a lot.

Realising I’d been staring at him for a good minute while I was sorting this out mentally, I looked down and cleared my throat. I tried to ignore the icy ball of nerves that was rapidly forming in my stomach.

"Are you playing a game with me?" I asked, and I hated the way my voice almost betrayed me - I sounded like an insecure teenager. But it was the only thing I needed to know here, I needed to be absolutely sure this wasn’t some kind of plot or a trap or a decidedly unfunny hoax. 

Call it insecurity, call it police instinct, call it whatever you want - I needed to know.

"No." His answer was clear and simple and devoid of any double meaning.

 _Okay then._ I tried to think of what to do next. I moved my hand to take his, but I stopped myself.

"Well. You could? I mean - how about we go back to my place? I’ve got board games. Or card games, if that’s more your thing. I could teach you Magic, instead of the other way around - Magic: The Gathering, obviously, not the real kind…" I blurted out. As soon as I said it, I knew I’d given him new ammunition. I wanted to take every word back immediately.

" _Your_ place? You don’t mean the coach house by any chance?" The man had the nerve to smirk as he said it. Damn that smirk and the face attached to it.

"I was trying to be smooth. Emphasis on trying," I added, trying to save what was left of my dignity.

"There is no need, Peter," Nightingale said, as he took my hands in his without hesitation. The icy ball in my stomach melted into something hot that distributed itself evenly between my nerve endings. "But I’ll gladly take you up on that offer. I recently learnt about this particular way of playing poker that required the losing participants to rid themselves of various items of clothing. I’ve been waiting for an opportunity to try it out."

As he pulled me along towards the coach house, my brain simply seemed to give up, with this final thought repeating itself like a broken record: _I’m pretty sure Thomas Nightingale wants to play strip poker with me. Thomas Nightingale. Strip poker. Oh boy._


End file.
